


The Warmth of Bodies

by rotrude



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Canon, Hurt/Comfort, Hypothermia, M/M, Season/Series 05
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-15
Updated: 2013-06-15
Packaged: 2017-12-15 00:37:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/843274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rotrude/pseuds/rotrude
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Merlin falls into a lake, h/c ensues, and King Arthur has an epiphany regarding his manservant.</p><p>Basically something from my hardrive and long ago, rewritten to fit with S5. I imagine this, as it now stands, would take place maybe before 5X1.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Warmth of Bodies

Through chattering teeth, Merlin says, “Seems pretty enough around here. We could... stay.”

“Merlin,” says Arthur, looking back at Merlin, who's fallen back even though Arthur had only been stomping at a moderate pace, “don't be absurd. We need to find the knights and get back to Camelot.”

But Merlin is shivering violently. It was subtle at first but uncontrollable tremors are now shaking him and the trembling is impossible to ignore. It’s clear that something happened to Merlin when they lost track of each other. The problem is that Merlin won’t talk about whatever that was in his usual stubborn Merlin fashion and Arthur has no way of guessing what actually occurred if Merlin doesn't spill the beans.

But they've come to such a pass that holding secrets is no longer possible. Merlin’s fingers are jerking badly, his teeth are chattering, and his legs have become so stiff he can't bend them at the knee. That's when Merlin has to stop in his tracks to wrap his arms around his own middle to stop the damn quivering, sodden clothes sticking like second skin to his scarecrow frame. 

As if he finds this new limb arrangement more pleasing, Merlin nods. He tries to lock his jaw too, the noise his teeth are making probably bugging him, but they keep rattling in his skull so that he can't even manage a response pout. Evidently determined to plough on though, he takes a step forwards and another one. But then he stretches his hand out as if seeking support, and crumples in a heap, legs folding under his own weight.

Arthur dashes towards him but it's too late to break his fall. Yet he's there and has to do something. He bends over, shakes Merlin by the shoulder and asks forcefully, “What's wrong with you?”

Merlin half slurs, half stumbles through his words, “When we were separated I f-fell i-into the lake.”

It's only then that Arthur gets a clearer picture of what happened and realises that that's in no way good. In support of his theory, he puts two fingers to Merlin's neck to get his pulse, which is revealed to be thready at best.

Apart from that, Merlin's skin is cold and clammy to the touch. He's like a slab of ice or one of those snowmen Arthur envied the common folks for building during the long winters of his childhood. 

“I saw Freya,” he says.

Arthur can't make heads or tails of Merlin's words but he does know that Merlin's lips are tinged with a sickly hue, that he's racked by full body shivers and that he's as pale as fresh linens. 

Arthur grabs Merlin by his maroon jacket and shakes him. “You're going to catch your death, idiot.”

A terrible dread seizes Arthur when Merlin stops slurring his words and starts looking up at Arthur through dopey eyes. “I'm c-cold,” he says.

In ordinary circumstances Arthur would have rolled his eyes and pointed out that Merlin was stating the obvious; he would have rubbed his nose in it and felt gleefully superior. 

Now he can't quite. Merlin's like a ragdoll.

As he lifts Merlin in his arms, Merlin goes limp and even the shakes subside. The thought of teasing Merlin doesn't even cross his mind.

As Arthur staggers through the enchanted woods, Merlin tries to keep up with his pace. Leaning into Arthur he totters on, his legs giving, his breath faltering even as he tries to march on. When he seems to be at the end of his tether, he burrows his head in Arthur's chest. Arthur ends up being the one bearing his weight. He manages for a while, covering a mile or so, but after a while, Arthur accepts that he can't carry a grown man much farther. So he deposits Merlin on the grass, under the shelter of a tree. 

Then he follows, laying himself down and sprawling against the trunk, becoming Merlin's human pillow. While in Arthur's arms, Merlin takes to seizing from time to time. The fingers that had been grappling for purchase and sliding down the mesh of Arthur’s chain mail go lax.

He falls silent, so Arthur speaks for them both. “Trust you to get in mortal peril while an angry witch is on the loose.” There's no answer from Merlin except for a number of raspy sobs. “If you think you can skip your chores on the plea of illness, think again.” He shakes his head at the harsh quality of his own words and adds somewhat more gently, “I'll get you on your feet in no time, though, see if I don't.” 

Maybe if he’s nicer Merlin will feel enticed to wake up.

Merlin's heavy and cold in his arms when Arthur lifts one of his eyelids. He acts this way more because he's seen Gaius do this when he has a patient under his hands than because he knows how to proceed from now on. He’s grasping at straws here.

He's a soldier at heart, not a nurse.

Even so he can read the signs of Merlin's condition the same way any person gifted with common sense can.

A short assessment has him worried. A more in depth examination has him gasping.

While Merlin's lips have turned blue, his eyes have gone gold, pupil barely discernible. That must be a grave sign of illness.

A chill descends over Arthur, but he doesn't let the physical sense of foreboding stop him from doing what he has to. It's not even a consideration. He has no time for second thoughts or for his feelings. He’s a man of action, if nothing else, so he needs to get busy.

His hands make quick work of Merlin's clothing even though they stutter over the belt cinching up the blue tunic Merlin favours. 

Merlin's garb is simple, consisting of few items that are easily put on. Nothing he possesses requires the help of a servant for the wearing, so Arthur's job is relatively easy. Or it would be if his own grip weren't none too steady. 

A few quick manouevres and he's got Merlin bare. What he sees makes his breath catch in his throat. Merlin's skin is blue in places and as pale as that of a corpse in others; when Arthur splays a hand on Merlin's chest he notes that the skin has become rough and stiff. Counting heartbeats isn’t an uplifting enterprise either.

Arthur may not be a physician, but he knows that the fluttering of Merlin's heart is not a symptom of anything good. Swallowing hard he realises he has to do something. He must, if he doesn't want to go back to Camelot alone when he started out with a friend in tow.

He doesn't have to be reminded of the absence of blankets to know that warming Merlin up won't be as easy as it would be if they were in Gaius' workshop.

He'll have to make do though. Before taking action he casts one last look at Merlin's body. Then he moves. Thankfully, he's wearing neither breastplate nor pauldron and, after having removed his belt and sword, he quickly gets rid of chain mail and coif. 

Boots and trousers are quickly disposed of and soon air prickles at his spine and the back of his legs. 

His hesitates only for a second before his naked body covers Merlin's from shoulders to toes, skin catching on skin. 

Merlin's body being as cold as ice, Arthur can't help but flinch for some long instants. But he makes himself stay put, concentrating on not moving, on blanketing Merlin and lending him as much body heat as his own body can generate. 

As he gathers Merlin to him, tucking his head under his chin and taking both his hands in his, Arthur realises that, being nearly of a height, they fit.

Merlin may crow over the inch or so he has on Arthur but like this they're pretty much the same. They could be brothers if they weren't so different in looks and build. In a way, however, they're brothers in arms.

Merlin may be no knight, but he's been on more missions than any knight of Camelot. The knights have off shifts mount guard only every so often, and go on alternating patrols. They have portions of free time allotted to them and Arthur can't order them to be part of a mission's muster each time there's need of one barring war scenarios. Merlin, for his part, hasn't missed a patrol, skirmish or campaign since he became Arthur's manservant. When Arthur turns in his saddle, it's Merlin who's at his left, reining his horse close to Arthur's, though cantering at a remove as a sign of respect. Funny, it's basically one of the few concessions to Arthur's status Merlin's ever made. And when they're all tired and making camp at night, it's Merlin's who's always there, not random squires, serving Arthur as well as the knights (the latter, in all honesty, is not something he's required to do), complaining about his chores, yes, but doing so with a half grin that belies the nature of his constant whinging.

In short Merlin may be a ridiculously bad fighter, have a horrible head for logstics and strategical planning, and be very weak in his understanding of warfare, but he is Arthur's brother in arms.

When knights baulk and ask for a reassignment, Merlin's there. When lords cower in their halls, manning their strongholds in the hopes of being spared the front lines, Merlin's there, a step behind Arthur, always at his side, a man as loyal and faithful as they come.

So now that Merlin's in dire straits, Arthur has to help him.

As time passes though Arthur realises that all he's done so far for Merlin is not enough and that something's deeply wrong. Whatever he's done has not helped mend matters enough, because Merlin's too still, too silent. 

He wants Merlin to react. They can't have come to such a pass as this, with Arthur going to this length to make Merlin better, for Merlin to do... nothing.

Arthur can't say he hasn't pictured what would happen if he ever had Merlin in his arms, took him to his bed once and for all. Though he is married, he's fantasised about such a thing happening from time to time. In a bid to be completely honest with Guinevere he even told her about his desires, couching them as such rather than as urges born of affection. Her response had been serious and measured. She'd looked softly into his eyes, said she wasn't fooled, and that she understood. "I'll invite him to bed," she said one time. That night Arthur just balled his fists and said no. A few months later Guinevere came up to him and said, "I understand." She kissed his cheek and her gaze softened when it laded on him. "I wish you'd find a way." So, yes, Arthur must admit he's thought of himself naked with Merlin on more than one occasion. In his mind, though, the circumstances would have been entirely different. 

Merlin would have blathered on incessantly and looked at him half-reverently, in that way he had of making you feel like a king even though you'd just lost crown and kingdom, and challengingly, as if he knew he was just as worthy as you.

Now, though, it's all wrong because Merlin's lax in his arms, his eyes are closed and the fire that usually animates him isn't sparkling within him anymore.

Arthur closes his own eyes so as not to have to witness this and holds Merlin closer to him, hip to hip, cocks nestled close, limbs tangled. He's hoping with all he had that Merlin's heart won't stop beating, his own thudding too fast out of fear that it will. 

He bestows a kiss on the top of Merlin's head and says, “You need to make it. Finding another half decent servant would be too tedious a task.”

He talks some more, then falls quiet again and reviews the situation. Since Gaius had warned against such behaviour in cases of hypthermia for fear the heart would stutter to a halt, Arthur knows he mustn't rub Merlin's limbs, but he caresses his back and pushes his knee between Merlin's thighs all the same. This must be acceptable and heat up Merlin's body without taxing his system. It's certainly working for Arthur. Perhaps the heat burning through him is also due to a measure of embarrassment, a knowledge that this would be called improper by some. Merlin's too out of it to notice and feel shy about it, but Arthur experiences it all the same.

Like this, they're a human knot, meshed together, one. There's an intimacy to this that is both exciting and buoying, thrilling and quietly uplifting. As if Merlin can't leave him for as long as there's tangible proof of his body being physically tangled with Arthur's.

Arthur does have a keen sense of what is proper and what is not, what is done and what isn't. It's been instilled in him together with notions chivalry and rules rleating to the art of war. This is breaking more than a few of those hallowed rules Arthur's father impressed on Arthur's young mind.

But it doesn't matter. Merlin's good at making Arthur break all sorts of rules. It's the same now.

And though his neck is flaming and he’s swallowing convulsively, there’s a part of Arthur that is glad of being pressed to Merlin full length, a part of him that would be content and bask in this if only Merlin opened his eyes and cracked a joke. Arthur secretly loves touching, loves touching Merlin. Being a Pendragon hasn't changed that side of him. Not even Father's rules have.

As the hours pass, Arthur uses his own body to warm Merlin as best he can and starts talking in the hopes Merlin will react to his voice. 

“I wonder why you do this to me, you know,” he says in a low voice, his words scacely articulate. “I wonder why I couldn't help but go and knock you down a peg or two that first time we met. I guess it's just your contrary nature.” His breath teases Merlin's hair. “I'd never met someone quite like you. So stupidly proud of standing up to me. I mean what fool does that? The King's son. My father never was kind. We should discuss your survival insticts. They're not working very well.” His draws his thumb along the skin behind Merlin's ear. “But you must wake up and be well for that to happen. I don't want to tell Gaius that something happened to you. Or your mother. I’m a man of honour and protecting mine falls within my province. Don’t let me fail.” 

He nearly stops before saying the words then ploughs on because they've come to an impasse and there's a fair chance they're not getting out of this anyway. It would be wrong of him not to admit the truth. It would be... not brave. A brave man stands up to his beliefs when no quarter's left.

He runs his hand the length of Merlin's spine, counting the knobs as he goes and says, “I's not just that though.” He inhales sharply, not used to ever voicing his thoughts, not when they're linked to something that burrows deeper inside him. Guinevere, his wise queen, would call them his feelings. “I'd be lonelier without you. More silent. Locked up in that king's cage. I don't want it to be serious and silent all the time.”

He'd say more but Merlin mumbles and the words dry on Arthur's lips.

When Merlin begins to shiver again, Arthur finds it a good sign and begins to breathe a little more easily himself. Merlin must be warming up some, his awareness returning. 

When enough time has passed for a change to have occurred, Arthur checks up on Merlin once more. A glance tells him that Merlin's cheeks have acquired a healthier hue and that his body temperature has fallen within a healthier range. With that as proof of Merlin's recovery, Arthur falls asleep to the sounds of Merlin's breathing.

 

****

 

Arthur startles awake. He blinks his weary eyes open to find Merlin curled up against his side, his breathing even. 

Arthur's arms are numb, his throat is parched and he's sharing body heat and sweat with Merlin. He shifts a little, and Merlin's eyelids flutter and open.

He meets Arthur's gaze, disorientated and confused, but clearly the same Merlin Arthur knows because he smiles as soon as Arthur does. 

“Welcome back,” Arthur says loftily, picking on Merlin's clumsiness. "You took a dive into a lake at the worst possible moment, it seems, it being winter and all that.”

“Still in the enchanted forest then, are we?” Merlin asks, lifting himself up onto his elbow to scan the locale; he doesn't sound too worried about that. It's as though he finds the daunting task of getting out of a place famed for being the bane of tavellers everywhere easy now that's he's conscious. 

“I’m afraid so,” Arthur says, grimacing.

As he says that, Arthur strikes his knuckles down the side of Merlin's cheek and even though he knows he ought to stop he doesn't. They're far away from the world they know, plunged into a foreign, enchanted environment where time seems to stand still, somewhere deep in a forest leagues away from castle and crown. 

He's nearly lost Merlin and he wants this and doesn't know how to get a hold of his customary restraint. Notions of duty don't help, his martial bearing is just a mask, and he's not the man he lets the world see. Not now. He'd love to be that man he doesn't really know himself as more than a projection, this ideal self he's put on a pedestal and quite likes to keep there. The same ideal self he wants to run away from on hunts and quest and faraway romps. But he's not that person. 

He's running now even while standing still.

If the world could just stop, Arthur supposes he'd be this man, the man he is right now.

The moment this fanciful idea strikes Arthur, Merlin looks down and takes in their state of undress. His lips twitch.

Arthur wants to blurt out, “I didn't take any liberties,” or ,“I saved your life,” but all he does is take Merlin's head between his palms and slant his lips over his manservant's. He knows he’s welcome the moment Merlin opens up to him fully. He knows he's right the moment his blood starts singing and rushing through his body, making feel heady, virile, and strong, as if he can take the world and wrap it around the palm of his hand.

Feeling at the top of the world, he dips his tongue into Merlin's warm mouth, retreats, brushes his lips gently at first then more insistently, till their kiss deepens. It's their first but there's not hesitancy. It could well have been their hundredth They know each other in a subtle way that goes beyong words.

And this, this beyond words expression of what he wants is what he needs to breathe.

Arthur's hands start roaming across the angular planes of Merlin's body and Merlin is jolted into reacting. 

His movements are sluggish at first but then he takes to mapping Arthur with hungry hands and a fervour that tastes like deep-rooted affection. 

Their tongues roll together, teeth clinking and scraping; fingers grip his shoulders, and Arthur tilts his head to taste every corner of Merlin's waiting mouth. 

Arthur slides a hand down between them, cupping Merlin as he moves and bucks against him. 

Arthur sinks and rocks against him, sliding his prick between the cradle of Merlin's thighs in an instinctive movement, while his hands busy themselves, rubbing Merlin to full hardness, the slap of flesh on flesh and their hitched breaths sounding the tempo of their coupling.

The roll of Merlin's hips is Arthur’s counterpoint. The echo to his thrusts.

On a shared moan, they slip into a rhythm and tumble into perfect synch without needing any words or cues. Being this close to someone who knows him like the back of his hand, the man who dresses and undresses him every morning, the man Arthur doesn't think he can't lie to unless it's by using walls of reserve, the man Arthur isn't sure he knows equally well sometimes is easy and hard at the same time. 

Because Merlin is simple in his faith and allegiance -- his man -- and a mystery all rolled into one.

He wants to understand that mystery though, retain a part of him, even if it's only as sense memory of this coupling.

Pressing closer, thrusting against Merlin is easily done because Merlin's form under his hands is as familiar as is his smell, or that wonder-filled look of his, the one that makes Arthur want to move mountains just so he can see it again and again. 

The strangeness is in the shape this new knowledge of Merlin takes: in the shared breaths, soft moans and bitten off sobs, in the soft-rough hands that trace the length of his back and buttocks, not to soothe but to light up the fires of his passion.

Arthur had never thought passion could take him so and rule his body. It's never been so before.

It's in the newly awoken tenderness that Merlin evokes when he strokes Arthur's hair or kisses the corner of his mouth on too a shaky breath. It's in the way Merlin's gripping him tight and clinging, crushing him to himself as if Arthur is the one who was almost lost.

Arthur seeks Merlin's mouth again and the tip of Arthur's tongue darts against Merlin's. For a moment they still, chests rising and falling one against the other, jaws slack with pleasure as they look into each other’s stunned eyes. 

Then the ceasefire is over and they move again. They hold each other close as they arch and pull and tug and steal each other's breath away with sure hands, hungry mouths and questing fingers. 

Arthur's calloused hands work Merlin to orgasm, steady and greedy. 

Merlin's face looks pained when he climaxes but there's something in the widening of his eyes that is both triumphant and sweet that lets Arthur know. Doing this was the right choice. 

With a slow thrust, the drag of his cock between Merlin's thighs sending shocks through Arthur's system, Arthur barrels over and into a peak of blinding pleasure. 

Then, gripping Merlin's sides as he plunges and rubs himself raw, he comes hard, throwing his head back and gritting his teeth to clamp down on the hoarse sounds he's so close to making.

They're damp and panting like horses at the end of a race when they're done, and Arthur collapses on top of Merlin. 

Merlin's hands draw odd shapes on his back Arthur would suspect of being secret incantations if he didn't know better. As he threads them through Arthur’s hair, Merlin's fingers move upwards. “I need to get you out of this blasted forest.”

“Hey,” says Arthur, voice used and rough, falling back on ritual so as not to gush to Merlin of all people. “Who saved whom here?”

“Should we keep a tally?” Merlin asks, but even though he accepts the banter it's clear he's scanning the ground for a way back to civilisation.

Arthur won't have it so yet. The forest's dangerous, the witch still around, but if she hasn't turned up by now, Arthur wagers she won't for a while yet. They have time to linger in this adventure.

Sated and sleepy, Arthur puts his head on Merlin's chest, too wrecked to move away, to untangle them when it's fine where he is.

He ought to put himself back together, act with the dignity incumbent on royalty, but he can hear Merlin's heartbeat slow down to a regular tempo and that's too good to give up now. He closes his eys and drifts off, the world never more perfect than on this botched quest.

 

***** 

 

And that's how the knights, hot on the rescue trail, find them, one human tangle of Arthur and Merlin. 

“Sire!” Leon exclaims.


End file.
